


Letting the Fates Decide (and other fairy tale nonsense)

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Happily Ever After, Modern AU, UST, Vaguely Smutty, birthday fic, bookstore fic, retail love, saucy langague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4460753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s tired. Tired of answering stupid questions, tired of looking at beautiful travel books but never actually going anywhere. Her best friend just wants her to be as happy as she is, but Emma knows there has to be something more out there for her. All she has to do is find it.  Or, as it turns out, let it find her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting the Fates Decide (and other fairy tale nonsense)

**Author's Note:**

> For my lovely friend wedlakeserenties for her birthday.

~*~

“How’s your morning?”

Clunking down her takeout hot chocolate, Emma drops into her seat with a distinct lack of grace. After scanning the vicinity to make sure there are no fellow employees at the surrounding tables, she shoots back a muttered answer. “People are idiots.”

Grinning at this familiar declaration, Mary Margaret slips into the chair opposite.  There’s glitter in her dark, short hair and the faintest outline of a temporary unicorn tattoo still visible on her cheekbone, but that’s nothing new.  “Just this morning, or all the time?”

Emma hesitates. She really doesn’t want to spend her precious lunch break venting, and her friend has just asked an innocent question over coffee, after all.  Unfortunately, it’s an innocent question that comes after six hours of being asked the most inane questions of all time.

“Tell me something,” she says as she removes the lid from her takeout cup and reaches for a plastic spoon, intent on sampling the mound of whipped cream perched on top of her hot chocolate.  “Would _you_ walk into a bookstore and ask the sales assistant if they think you’d like a particular book, knowing that they have no idea _whatsoever_ about you or your reading tastes?”  

She’s careful to keep her voice down, because it wouldn’t do for any potential customers to hear the store manager raving about them being idiots, but the frustration in her tone is still clear, and it’s no surprise when Mary Margaret gives her a sympathetic look.  “No.”

Sadly, a generous mouthful of whipped cream and cinnamon does nothing to brighten Emma’s mood. “Or ask if we have the book by that guy who was on TV this morning?”

“Nope.” She can see that Mary Margaret is trying not to smile.  Maybe one day, she thinks darkly, she might think it’s funny too. 

Not today, though.

“Or act like we’re a Walmart rather than a bookstore and be shocked that we don’t sell pet supplies?”

The other woman’s chai latte pauses on the way to her lips. “Um-”

“Or tell me that you’re looking for the novel based on that show with the cannibal doctor guy and then get angry when I mention that the novel was actually written first?”

“Well-”

“Or come to the counter and tell me that you called last month and spoke to _some girl_ about a hot new bestseller and she told you we had some in stock but now we don’t and you demand to speak to the manager?”

“Oh, dear.”

“And when I tell you that I _am_ the manager, you refuse to believe me because I am, and I quote, too blonde and pretty to be in charge?”

“Emma.” Reaching across the table, Mary Margaret pats her on the arm. “Breathe.”

“Sorry.”  Emma spoons another mouthful of whipped cream into her mouth, then gives the hot chocolate a slow stir.  “I guess I’m just a little over being asked stupid questions today.”

“You can always come and work for me,” her friend suggests cheerfully, and they share a smile.  It’s an old private joke between them, because they both know that (a) Mary Margaret’s fledgling kids’ party business can’t afford to pay another full-time senior and (b) fairy tales are so not Emma’s thing.  She doesn’t know how Mary Margaret can stand spending so many hours a day talking about fairies and dragons and princesses with toddlers and their mothers, but her friend seems to thrive on it. 

“I’m allergic to glitter and princess tiaras, remember?” Emma quips, then takes a cautious sip of her hot chocolate, because the last thing she needs today is a scalded tongue. “My job isn’t that bad.”

“Glad to hear it.” Her friend grins, waving a graceful hand at the book-laden shelves that surround the coffee shop.  “I’d miss your employee discount if you quit.”

“Me, too.” They share another complicit smile, then Emma sighs, drumming her fingers restlessly on the table. “I’ve lasted this long, I think I can tough it out until the end of the year.” 

A flicker of sadness dances across the other woman’s face. “You’re still planning on travelling next year?”

Emma bites her lip.  She really doesn’t want to open this particular can of worms, not during the only lunch break they’ve managed to snatch together all week.  “You know what they say on all those travel blogs about the planet, you gotta see it before you leave it.”

Alarm replaces the sadness in her friend’s eyes.  “That sounds ominous.”

“You know what I mean.”  Emma kicks the leg of the table gently with the toe of her boot.  “I’m twenty-eight years old and I’ve never even left the country.”

“But to give up your job and buy a one-way ticket?”  Mary Margaret’s normally smiling mouth twitches downward at the corners.  “I don’t think I could ever do that.”

Emma’s hand tightens around her takeout cup, mentally kicking herself for letting the conversation wander in this direction.  She loves Mary Margaret with all her heart, but they’re very different people. “That’s because you love what you do and you’ve got David and you don’t spend every other day wondering what the hell you’re doing with your life.”

“Oh, Emma.” Her friend’s bright green eyes are suddenly brimming with concern, and Emma finds herself biting her lip for the second in in as many minutes.   The last thing she needs on top of the morning she’s had is her best friend tearing up over _her_ lack of a happy ever after.  Luckily, she knows just how to distract her. 

“Come on, enough of this pity party.”  Pushing back her chair, she picks up her hot chocolate.  “Wasn’t there a pair of shoes you wanted to show me in the mall?”

Mary Margaret’s eyes light up at the mention of shoes, just as Emma knew they would, and she slowly gets to her feet. “I just want you to be as happy as I am, you know?”

“And one day I will be,” Emma assures her, wondering exactly who she’s trying to convince here.  “These things are supposed to happen when you least expect it, right?”

~*~

He should be writing.

(An author’s only as successful as their next book, after all.)

He should be writing, not eavesdropping.

(That said, the conversation at the next table is already filed away in his memory, ready to be trotted out and thrust into the mouth of some future character when the inspiration strikes.)

He should be writing, not kicking himself for not looking up in time to see if the rest of the blonde sitting at the next table lived up to the gloriously long legs that had stalked through his field of vision. 

(He’s due to head to Europe on a promotional tour in two months’ time and if the rough outline for his second novel isn’t in Evelyn “Granny” Lucas’ possession by then, she’ll have his guts for garters, as she so colourfully likes to tell him.)

Sadly, the willowy blonde had sat down with her back to him before he’d managed to catch a glimpse of her face. That’s not to say that he doesn’t appreciate his current view, given her shapely back and the bright hair pulled back in an intricate braid to fall over one shoulder.  He definitely appreciates being able to admire the tender nape of her neck and her long, elegant throat, but he’s a big picture man.  

(That said, he _does_ like her voice. all throaty, almost passionate, in her irritation, then soft and wistful as she’d voiced her wish to expand her horizons.)

He glares at the laptop screen in front of him, then saves the document he’s barely touched in two weeks.  His plan to snatch a quiet hour or two holed up in this coffee shop would have worked out grand if only it had coincided with the will to write more than three sentences. Perhaps he should have stuck to his usual routine and visited the ‘J’ section of the fiction shelf first, taking a moment to see his name on all those covers and remind himself that being a published author isn’t just a particularly realistic dream he’s having.

The scraping of chairs being pushed back at the neighbouring table cut through his musing, and he realises with dismay that the leggy blonde is about to walk out of his life.    

_Bugger._

Closing his laptop, he twists in the ridiculously oversized armchair, peering out from behind the back of it.  He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try to catch a proper glimpse before she vanishes.

“I just want you to be as happy as I am, you know?”

That’s the dark-haired woman speaking now, the one who looks like a wee pixie come to life.  Strangely, he finds himself holding his breath as he waits for the blonde’s answer.

“And one day I will be,” he hears her say as she reaches down to pick up her takeout cup. “These things are supposed to happen when you least expect it, right?”

It’s beyond ridiculous - she’s a complete stranger to him - but the yearning in her voice makes his chest ache.  Then she swings around as she hitches the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and he sees her properly.

 _Bloody hell._  

She’s glorious.

He’s a writer. He _really_ should be able to concoct a more impressive description, he despairs faintly as she pushes in her chair, painfully oblivious to his presence.  But he can’t.  She’s knocked all the words out of his head, leaving him slack-jawed in the face of flawless skin, huge green eyes framed by dark, impossibly long lashes and bookended by cheek bones that could cut through glass. Oh, and that sardonic quirk to her lovely mouth.   His grip on his laptop tightens.  She’d be a feisty one in every setting, he has no doubt.

He should speak to her.  Ask her out for a drink, at least.  She can only say no, after all.

But she’s already walking away, even as he’s trying to come up with an opening line, her arm linked with that of the dark-haired woman, and he’s too late.

“You’re a sodding ditherer of the first water, Killian Jones,” he mutters to himself, knowing it would be bad form indeed to stalk her from shoe shop to shoe shop in this cavernous mall.  His editor has read him the riot act regarding his tendency to procrastinate more than once, and it seems now he’s just paid the price for not heeding her words.

He briefly ponders the possibility that she might be an employee of the bookstore itself, then dismisses it.  There are several bookstores in this vast mall, she wasn’t wearing the shirt he’d seen sported by the other employees, and surely a sensible store manager wouldn’t complain about the business’ customers in plain sight.  Whoever she is, that woman definitely seemed like a particularly sensible person.

Pushing aside his unfinished (and now cold) tea, he shoves his laptop into his satchel and tells himself there will be other women who will make his pulse race with a single, fleeting glance.  He slings the satchel over his shoulder, trying not to think of the sadness in the blonde’s voice when she’d spoken of changing the course of her life.  

It’s beyond ludicrous, but he wishes very much he’d had the chance to tell her that he knows how she feels, and he suspects that unspoken conversation is going to haunt him for a long time to come.

~*~

“Excuse me, love?”

Half-hidden behind the counter, her shoulders stiffen at the endearment addressed to her ass, and takes a deep, calming (ha!) breath.  At least he didn’t say _sweetheart,_ she thinks darkly, then straightens and turns around to find herself face to face with the best-looking guy she’s seen in months. She blinks at him, unable to stop herself from clocking the bright blue eyes and the short beard roughening his chiseled jawline. 

(Chiseled? Really?  She _has_ to stop reading those cheap romance novels whenever she’s bored on her shift.)

“-uhuhhelp you?”  She clears her throat, embarrassed by the strangled noise she’s just made in place of her usual polished greeting.  “Sorry, how can I help you?”  

Flustered by the betrayal from her brain, it takes her another few seconds to realise that he’s staring at her wide-eyed, looking as though he’s just seen a ghost.  “You _do_ work here. _”_

She heaves a mental sigh. Obviously it was too much to ask that there was a decent brain to go along with that amazing face.  Story of her life, sadly.  “No, I just go around asking strange men if I can help them in bookstores.”

She’d meant for that to sound sarcastic, she really had.  Instead, it’s got _flirtatious_ written all over it, and she’s not sure who’s more taken aback, her or Mr Handsome Customer.

Probably him, she decides.  She’s pretty sure the tips of _her_ ears aren’t going pink.  

“Sorry, I just meant, uh, never mind.” He tugs at the shoulder strap of his satchel with one hand, lifting the other to scratch nervously at the back of his neck. “I wondered if you’d be kind enough to help me with a book selection.”

His softly accented voice washed over her like warm silk against her skin, melodic and lilting despite the mundane words.  She hesitates, reluctant to ruin the moment with the inevitable inane questions she knows are coming, then nods.  “Shoot.”

He quickly retrieves the book he’s got tucked under his arm, then gives her a hopeful smile that makes her idiotic pulse stutter.  “Have you read this one?”

As questions go, it’s not a bad start, and she peers at the book in his hand.  It’s not a new release but a well-received novel from an established author, and luckily, she doesn’t have to fudge her answer. “Yep.”

He nods, as if she’s just given him the most brilliant response he’s ever heard. “What did you think of it?”

She hesitates - it’s her job to sell books, not impose her personal opinions on customers - but there’s something about this guy that makes her want to be brutally honest. “It was okay, I guess.”

His wide mouth twitches in a smile, a light of what looks like amusement coming into his bright blue eyes. “That hardly sounds like a glowing recommendation.”

Emma twists her fingers through the lanyard of her store ID, anything to stop herself from reaching out and smoothing back the spiky dark hair falling over his forehead. _Get a grip, Emma._ “It’s not.”  

He smiles again, gesturing for her to go on, and she takes a deep breath. “It was okay, but I could have been reading any one of his other books, you know?  Change the names of the characters and their occupations and it could have been his last one, or the one before that.”  She remembers now that when she’d forced herself to finish the book in question, she’d rolled her eyes and tossed it onto the couch beside her and vowed never to read another.  “Sometimes I think he just uses the _find_ and _replace_ keys on his computer these days.”

“Well, I can’t argue with you there.”  He dangles the book from his fingertips. “Pity, I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case with this latest one.”  He glances around, as if meaning to put the book back on the shelf, and she finds herself reaching out to take it from him.

“Here, let me put it back for you.”

(She’s just being a good salesperson. It’s the kind of thing she does for every customer.)

It’s a charade that’s busted two seconds later when his fingers brush against hers as he passes her the book and she almost drops the damned thing.  She fumbles it, before catching it against her chest, her face flushing with warmth as she lifts her eyes to meet his.

He’s grinning at her.

Handsome, smug bastard, she thinks resentfully.  Handsome, _weirdly familiar_ smug bastard, if she’s perfectly honest with herself.

Oh.

Oh, _no._

“I _know_ you.”

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, and a faint flicker of panic darts across his face.  

“I, uh, was in the coffee shop earlier,” he begins apologetically, but she holds up her hand (definitely _not_ approved customer service), frantically chasing the tail of the name skittering through her mind.  When she catches up with it, her heart sinks, because there’s no way he’s here to flirt with her.  She’d straightened the display of his books only this morning, and amidst her irritation at being played, she finds herself thinking that the headshot on the back cover did _not_ do him justice.

“You’re Killian Jones.”

Her tone is accusing, and she’s not surprised that he looks as though she’s just caught him with his hand in the cash register. “I’m afraid so.”

She scowls. She’s heard of Head Office doing spot checks on managers, sending in shills to act as customers, but it’s never happened to her.  Until today, that is, and the vague notion that she might ask him to go for coffee sometime shrivels up and dies. This is about business, not pleasure, and she’s shocked by the force of her disappointment.  

Glancing around nervously, she wonders if she should start looking for a hidden camera or a lurking district manager.  “Did Leroy put you up to this?”

He frowns as he takes a step closer, close enough for her to smell the peppery spice of his aftershave and she does not need this bullshit, not today.  “I have no idea who that is.”

She hesitates, the thought occurring to her that she might be jumping the gun here. “You weren’t sent in here to test my managerial skills?”

“Definitely not.” He’s smiling again now, the fine lines at the corners over his eyes making her fingertips twitch with the urge to trace them. “I’m lurking for a far more embarrassing reason.”

She hugs the discarded novel to her chest, trying and failing to ignore the warm fluttering in her belly that his confessional tone invokes.  “Which is _what_ , exactly?”

“I wanted to make sure that my book really does exist and that being published wasn’t all just some wondrous dream.”  He leans closer still, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.  “I find I have to do that every now and then, just to reassure myself.”

“You’re kidding me.” Laughter bubbles up in her throat before she can catch it, and she gives herself yet another mental shake. “Your sales are really strong, and I don’t think I’ve read a single negative review.”  She doesn’t mean to gesture to him as if to say _and just look at you_ , but she does. “Why the hell would _you_ need reassurance?”

Again, she’s not sure who is most embarrassed by her bluntness, but he just grins, quirking one dark eyebrow at her. “We all need our hand held from time to time, love.”

She looks at his hands then, of course she does. They’re well-shaped and strong, with long, elegant fingers, the nails blunt and trimmed, the backs of them lightly dusted with dark hair.  It’s the same dark hair that she definitely _hasn’t_ beenchecking out in the V-neck of his dark blue shirt, and a dozen wildly inappropriate thoughts leap into her head.  “I’ve read your book,” she hears herself blurt out, more to fill the suddenly thick silence between them than anything else, and he ducks his head in an almost shy nod.

“Have you now?”  He folds his arms across his chest (okay, his forearms are as strong and well-shaped as his hands, and yep, there’s that dark hair again) as he fixed her with a look that might be taken as a gentle challenge.  “And what was your verdict?”

Remembering his debut novel, she feels a smile curve her lips.  A modern retelling of several entwined fairy tales, it had been fresh and original, populated with believable heroes and villains whose traditional roles were turned on their heads more then once. “I liked it.”

The sound of his laughter tugs at her belly and makes her skin itch with heat. “Having heard your last review, I’ll take that as a positive.”

She grins at him, her embarrassment draining away. She _had_ liked his book, liked it enough to lend it to Mary Margaret and insist that _she_ read it as well.  To be honest, she’d actually loved it (needless to say, Mary Margaret had _adored_ it) but she’s never been one for gushing over authors in person.  “It is. It was very, um, optimistic.”

Her simple answer seems to make him very happy. “Well, my darling, fairy tales _are_ about hope.”

She stares at him. It’s very strange, hearing Mary Margaret’s words coming from someone else’s lips. “That’s exactly what my best friend says.”

His teeth flash white against his dark beard as he smiles. “I like her already.” He blinks, then clears his throat in a faintly apologetic gesture.  “Or him, of course.”

“Her,” Emma offers pointedly, and a flash of awareness burns through the air between them.  He’s gazing at her as if in a daze, as though he’s just had an some kind of epiphany, and she thinks of what she’d told Mary Margaret only an hour or so ago.

_These things are supposed to happen when you least expect it, right?_

If she was waiting for validation of that claim, wouldn’t Killian Jones (currently grinning at her as though it’s the only thing he’s got planned for the rest of the day) be an outstanding example?  She might not believe in fairy tale endings, but she knows a figurative anvil when she sees one.  “Would you like to go for coffee when I finish my shift?”

The word _shift_ has barely left her tongue before he’s nodding, his grin becoming a hopeful smile that makes her heart rattle against the cage of her ribs. “I would like that very much.”

Old habits die hard, and she finds herself floundering in the face of his obvious interest. “You don’t even know what time I finish, though.”

“I’m a patient man.”

“Excuse me Miss, but if you’re finished chatting I’d like some _actual_ help?”

The weary irritation in the unseen male customer’s voice has her spinning around, but not before she sees Killian give her a bright blue wink.  “Ah, don’t blame the lovely, er,” he breaks off to peer at the name tag pinned over her left breast, almost making her squirm, “ _Emma_ , mate. She was only trying to help me sort out a particularly knotty decision.”

Emma gives the new arrival her most placating smile, all the while wishing for a curse to rain toads down upon his balding head. “I’ll be right with you, sir.”

The older man mutters something unflattering under his breath but moves a few feet away to study the new releases, and Emma turns back to Killian, her pulse skipping through her veins like a mad thing. “I finish at six.”

His mouth curls in a slow, warm smile, and she actually feels her knees tremble. “I’ll be here.”  Giving a nod in the direction of the waiting customer, he adjusts the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and turns to leave.   Seeing the other man engrossed in reading the back of a new release, Emma gives into the overwhelming temptation to tease a budding literary celebrity she’s known less than five minutes.

“Hey, aren’t you going to admire your book covers before you go?”

“Actually, I think I’ll give it a miss today.”  He lifts his chin, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I do believe I’m feeling rather optimistic already. See you at six, _Emma._ ”

The next four hours pass in a blur.  She tidies their stock of Killian’s book more than once, and if she spends most of that _tidying_ gazing at his headshot on the back cover, she doubts anyone would blame her.

~*~

Over coffee (enjoyed in a cosy back booth in a café far removed from the bookstore, thank goodness) she smiles at him. “Before I forget, thanks for asking all the right questions back there at work. You have _no_ idea of the stupid things people ask me sometimes.”

He hesitates.  He likes to think he would have been a sensible customer regardless, but he _was_ forearmed with the knowledge of her pet hates when it came to customer service.  Emboldened by the warmth simmering between them, he decides to confess his dark secret.  

“I have a confession to make.” She looks intrigued, rather than annoyed, and he presses on. “I actually noticed you earlier today, when you were in the store’s coffee shop with your friend.”

“I didn’t see _you_ ,” she shoots back, sounding pleasingly disappointed in herself.  “Where were you hiding?”

He grins at her choice of words.  It seems she knows him quite well already, because he had indeed been hiding. “In one of those chairs with the gigantic backs, bunkered down with my laptop and a pot of tea. My own mum wouldn’t have spotted me, I assure you.”

She takes a long sip of her coffee. “That’s not much of a confession.  Sneaking in to admire your own headshot on your books, now there’s a secret worth spreading around.”

His heart lurches at her teasing tone. “Well, I had to do _something_ with my afternoon,” he admits cheerfully. “It was either that or keep kicking myself for not being quick enough to talk to you before you and your friend went hunting for shoes.”

She looks at him, clearly confused. “How did you know we were looking at shoes?”  Before he can answer, her lovely green eyes widen. “Wait, were you eavesdropping?”

His gut tightens at the accusation in her tone. _Bloody hell._ He takes a breath, very much aware of the thin line he’s treading. “In my defence, love, the café _was_ rather quiet.”

She’s evidently unconvinced by his argument. “You heard everything we were saying?”

He’s only just met this woman, but it already feels very wrong to lie to her. “I did.”

Her gaze narrows, and he notes her mental retreat with a sinking heart. “I don’t know how I feel about that. Wait, did you come _looking_ for me in the bookstore? Did you know I worked there?”

If he were writing this conversation, he’d think of this moment as a freaking uncomfortable but pivotal one. “No, I didn’t know you worked there, love.”  Reaching across the small table, he covers her hand with his, quietly thrilled when she makes no move to pull away. “Hence my stunned mullet impersonation when I bumped into you.”

Relief dances in her eyes, and he wonders what kind of men she’s encountered in her past that made her immediately assume the worst of him.  He can only imagine, and he immediately vows to exceed every single positive expectation she might still harbor.  “Just a happy coincidence, then?”

“Some people say there’s no such thing as coincidence.”   Her gaze locks with his, and he’s dimly aware of her hand shifting beneath his, turning so that their fingers entwine. “They prefer to think of it as fate.”

She chuckles softly, her eyes glowing in the dim light, and the warmth of her wraps itself around him, drawing him closer with every new breath. “Just who _are_ these mysterious people?”

He squeezes her hand, gratified when she squeezes back. “I’m not sure, but I have to say, today I’m a firm believer in their theory.”

She leans forward in the same heartbeat as he, and when her mouth touches his, something tight and brittle and lonely inside him crumbles into dust.  She tastes of coffee and heat, and the tiny sigh of pleasure she breathes into his mouth makes his head swim more than any whiskey-fuelled bender he’s ever been on.

(He wants to write sonnets to the way her mouth tastes.  The way her lips soften against his, the exquisite torture of her tongue sliding against his. He wants to commit whole chapters to the smell of her, sweet and fresh, and his longing to bury his face against her skin. He wants to record her dreams and her hopes and frame them in gilt, surrounding himself with her thoughts, to inspire him to be a better man.)

When the kiss is over - it’s intense but brief, because they _are_ in public, after all - she pulls away, breathless, her eyes glowing even brighter than before.  She seems to realise she’s gripping the lapel of his jacket in the same instant he does, but she doesn’t drop her hands or draw back. Instead, she nudges the scar on his cheek with the tip of her nose, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth in delicate invitation that makes his whole body shiver. “I think I might be a believer today, too.”

~*~

In the end, it turns out she was right all along.

Things actually do happen when you least expect them.

(Go figure, right?)

In the end, she doesn’t quit her job, and she doesn’t buy a one-way ticket to travel the world.

Instead, she organises to take a month’s leave of absence (with Leroy’s blessing, no small miracle) and finds herself gazing in disbelief at an itinerary that almost makes her mouth water with anticipation. “We’re going to Paris first?”

“Indeed we are, Swan.”  Killian leans down to press a kiss to her parted lips, his mouth lingering on hers just long enough to make her shift restlessly in her seat, then draws away.  “First stop on the ‘please buy my next book even though I haven’t finished it’ tour.

She laughs as she leans back into the squishy depths of his leather couch. She hates to be disloyal, but her old couch just doesn’t do it for her anymore. “Your first draft was really good, though.”

“Aye, it was acceptable enough, I suppose.”  He smooths his hand over her head as he straightens, his fingers brushing softly against her temples. “Just as well, given Granny’s tendency to resort to violent persuasion with her authors.”

“Speaking of Granny Lucas.” She slides the printed itinerary onto the coffee table, working up the courage to voice the lingering fear that been prickling at her for weeks. “Are you sure I won’t be in the way on this tour?”

“Firstly, Granny approves of you, which is no mean feat.” He’s quick to drop onto the couch beside her, her hand finding hers. “Secondly, why would you even think such a thing?”

She shrugs, feeling faintly foolish for bringing it up.  He’s been nothing but open and honest with her since the day they first met, but old habits die hard.  She makes a mental note not to mention this conversation to Mary Margaret, because she’s really not in the mood to hear her friend’s _I told you so._ “Well, it’s a pretty glamorous world, and I just work in a bookstore-”

His scowl isn’t directed at her, she knows that, but it still makes her bite her lip. “Swan, you will never be _just_ anything _._ ” His eyes gleam like polished sapphires, and she couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. ”You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met and the most important person in _my_ world, and that’s all that matters to me.”  He gives her a devilish grin.  “Anyone who is daft enough to think otherwise can fuck right off.”

Overwhelmed, she literally has no adequate comeback to that, so she settles for kissing him thoroughly.  She breathes him in, tasting the dark sweetness of his mouth until his hands are tight in her hair, one hard thigh pressing between hers with delicious accuracy.  “I’m going to Paris,” she breathes, as much to herself as to him, and his answering chuckle is warm against her throat.

“Aye. The City of Love and all that nonsense.”

She stiffens at his laughing dismissal. She can’t help it. They may have been living in each other’s pockets for almost two months now and fucked each other into senseless oblivion every other night, but they haven’t gone _there_ yet.  

She’s not sure she’s ready to hear it.  She’s definitely not sure she’s ready to _say_ it.  All the same, she needs to know that the possibility for both of those things is still out there, somewhere.

As if hearing her thoughts, he lifts his head, his expression tender as he looks down at her.  “Nonsense for _some,_ of course.”  He rubs his thumb over the swell of her bottom lip, his words as gentle as his touch. “You know, those ridiculous people who don’t believe in fate.”

She swallows hard, pushing past the sudden lump in her throat. “They’re missing out.”

He smiles at her, his eyes glittering with emotion, and she suddenly realises she doesn’t need to hear the words to know that he loves her. “Indeed they are, Swan.”

~*~

He doesn’t wait until Paris to tell her that he loves her.

He tells her that same night, when they’re lying in his bed which has felt too big and empty for far too long, her body slumped blissfully against his, her naked breasts still flush against his hammering heart.  

She stares at him for a long moment, then kisses him softly, her hands gentle on his face.  When it’s over, she tells him that she loves him, too, and his heart almost splits a hole in his chest.

She tangles her hand with his, murmuring wearily about being the one who gets to hold his hand from now, then she buries her head against his shoulder and is away with the fairies, her breathing steady and sure.

He stares up at the ceiling, his vision blurring hotly at her words, and decides that coincidence and fate and destiny can go to hell, because this is True Love, and he couldn’t have written a happier happy ending for himself if he’d bloody well tried.

(Best not mention that to Granny Lucas, though.)

~*~


End file.
